Musically, this production
is superb. Visually it is excellent.
And the filming itself reaches the level
of high art, a further plain of creative
insight. It would please Wagner most,
though, that this version is a true
Gesamtkunstwerk, because it ties in
all elements possible, and, moreover,
deals lucidly with the philosophic ideas
that fundamentally underpin Wagner's
concepts.

Even before the first
notes are played, there’s a thrust to
the dramatic narrative. The stage is
covered in dust and shards of masonry.
A meteorite is lodged in a wall, as
if the universe itself was out of alignment,
irreparably damaged. Gurnemanz’s aides
are dressed like the thousands of statues
in the Terracotta Army in Xian. I shall
digress, but bear with me, for the connection
seems to illuminate much of what this
production is about. The Xian statues
were made on the orders of a visionary
warrior who united China for the first
time, standardized its texts and infrastructure
and started the Great Wall. Haunted
by his dubious birthright, he exacted
cruel revenge on what we’d today call
"the Establishment". He became
paranoid, tormenting himself to search
for "the elixir of immortality".
Yet, despite the colossal scale of his
achievements, his dynasty collapsed,
his idealism tainted by savagery. His
great palaces and libraries were burned
to the ground. There’s obviously no
direct reference to Monsalvat and its
past, but the resonances, like half-forgotten
legend, shed light on what might be
an inner meaning of this opera.

Matti Salminen, as
Gurnemanz, exudes dignity and nobility.
What grandeur! Nonetheless, we are reminded
that something is seriously out of kilter.
Here, the medium of film comes into
its own, as the camera captures in close-up
every grimace on Amfortas’s tortured
face. Hampson may not have much to sing
in this act, but in this production,
he is a central presence, absolutely
essential to the action around him.
His natural elegant persona is transformed.
Silently, through brilliant acting,
he conveys both intense Weltschmerz
and suffering, yet still convinces as
a powerful King and Commander. His tenderness
towards his father, and his expression
of love and helplessness is exceptionally
moving. This Amfortas knows compassion
– tellingly, he glances at Kundry with
kindness – but it is not enough. His
wound is such it must be healed by others.
Titurel , in this production emerges
in glorious, shining reptilian guise.
He may be dying, but he still has more
animal spark in him than his wounded,
doomed son.

Kundry is the only
real stroke of colour in the ashen landscape.
Her costume is a masterstroke in itself
– Waltraud Meier appears as a battered
roadkill, her "fur" matted
with what appears to be blood. She writhes,
twists and rolls in agony, like a wild
animal smashed by an overwhelming force,
yet one which refuses to die. Singing
her difficult, almost alto, lines is
a tour de force at the best of times,
but here she conveys an almost elemental,
supernatural instinct; it is she who
proclaims by silent rapture the approach
of the "pure fool" even before
he bursts on stage. This is another
detail which would be lost in performance
without the focus of film. Christopher
Ventris has made Parsifal his own, through
many performances. While his face lacks
the mobility of Hampson’s or Meier’s,
he acts with his voice. Like Meier’s
Kundry, he is a wild, scratched animal,
youthful sounding but with an unblinking,
solid physicality that contrasts well
with Hampson’s cerebral anguish. Gurnemanz’s
account of how things came to pass is
sung with stunning dignity and nobility.
Even though Salminen has sung the role
many times and we know the story, he
still exudes an almost hypnotic effect
on us. But not quite so on the young
man, who listens avidly but is no overawed
cipher. It is Kundry’s movements and
the orchestra who convey the prophecy
"By compassion made wise the poor
Fool". Kundry alone has power to
rotate the meteorite – symbolic of her
central role in the proceedings.

Tom Fox’s Klingsor
is convincingly sung, but the effect
is unfortunately spoiled by his costume,
which is frivolous mock kabuki, quite
out of synch with the rest of the visual
production. Perhaps, though, this is
not unintentional. In the documentary
that follows, Lenhoff and Fox say that
this Klingsor loves Parsifal and is
glad to be beaten because in death he
will be released from his struggle.
The Flower Maidens are depicted in context
again, like Chinese tomb figurines of
courtesans, their long, floating sleeves
frozen forever in stylized dance. The
choreography is excellent. The maidens
weave a maze around Parsifal but cannot
touch him, as if he were encased in
the invisible armour of purity. They
move with an organic unity, like waves,
like leaves. In a telling reference
to the dead swan, Kundry hides behind
an edifice that resembles folded wings,
only her head showing, like a bird.
Gradually she sheds parts of her costume,
like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis,
until she, too, looks as vulnerable
as a newborn.

Again, a beautifully
played Vorspiel, simply filmed, marks
the transition to the world of the Final
Act. Gurnemanz is old and weary. Kundry
lies at the end – or is it the beginning?
– of a curved railway line that leads
offstage. Gurnemanz, ever the representative
of ritual and order, reproaches the
strange, black knight who comes bearing
arms on a Holy Day. Yet the spear Parsifal
brings is not a weapon, but a healing
agent. He has been on a long journey,
searching for Montsalvat, but it is
a journey of self-realization, of gaining
insight and maturity as well. Some productions
may make more of the "Christian"
elements of the opera, but here the
interpretation is far more profound
and spiritual – compassion is so essential
to life that it transcends religion.
Nagano and Lenhoff said that their vision
very much focused on the dichotomy between
traditional concepts of social and religious
convention and the subversive, liberating
effects of a "pure", spiritual
state of compassion, which transcends
all temporal assumptions. The Knights
may once have been idealistic and holy,
but they have become embroiled in formulaic
ritual. Their life force has to be fed
by the Grail; not by their innate sense
of compassion. This is why they are
starving, depicted as a defeated army
in rout. They have lost even that sense
of humanity that sustained them before.
They mob Amfortas like a crowd of grasping,
bullying rats. Blind aggression and
self-interest motivate them now. They’ve
even lost their respect for Amfortas,
a human being. It is an incredibly painful
scene to witness. The message is clear:
selfishness makes people subsume themselves
to gang values and mob rule. They may
win in the short term by demeaning others
but the triumph of the lowest common
denominator makes them lose their souls.
Again, the choreography here emphasizes
the dissonances in the music, so deftly
articulated by Nagano.

In this interpretation,
Amfortas plays a pivotal role. In a
terrifying vignette, he falls into a
tomb of "terracotta warriors"
where he nearly becomes trapped. But
what he has left of his humanity helps
him approach his father’s shrivelled
corpse and hold it lovingly, in an act
of ultimate compassion. The film captures
every nuance of emotion on Hampsons
face, while from afar, a choir sings
of the mercy of the Grail. Amfortas
also links the old hierarchy of the
Grail through Titurel, himself and
Parsifal, when he hands Parsifal his
crown, heartfelt hope and faith in a
better future. Parsifal, whom Ventris
now portrays with great dignity and
suppressed strength, puts the crown
on Titurel’s corpse. He and Kundry
then slowly head off onto the curved
railway, leading towards the light.
Where does it go? We are left wondering.
All we know is that Parsifal represents
another way of being, of living in society,
one based not on power, hierarchy and
conventional ritual but on compassion
and respect for the individual. Gurnemanz
cannot change – he stands behind, casting
all hope on the spear which Parsifal
no longer needs. It is a beautiful moment,
made even more poignant by the filming.
As Kundry steps behind the curtain,
leaving the stage, a camera captures
her once again as Waltraud Meier, an
exhausted singer who has given her all
in the service of art and of others.

Whether Lenhoff, Nagano
and this unusually intellectual cast
realized it or not, the First Emperor
of China, the flawed dreamer whose visions
ended in flames, believed in a political
order known as "Legalism".
The concept was that might made right,
that group domination was far more important
than individual human beings. Because
the simple compassion of the ordinary
"fool" meant nothing the system
collapsed as soon as the controls fell
apart. China didn’t discover Buddhism
for another few hundred years, but perhaps,
you can see the parallels. This may
be my individualistic way of taking
this interpretation of Parsifal on board,
but I don’t think it is all so far from
Wagner’s own magpie habit of combining
ideas from different places and coming
up with a wholly original synthesis.
I think he would have loved this interpretation
as it would have appealed to the anarchist,
anti-capitalist, anti-conformist in
him. Could Wagner have been a Nazi with
Parsifal and its overall message of
compassion and humanity? I think not.
Nagano’s ability to pick on the modernist
chromaticism in the score bears this
out, too. It would be hard to beat this
production for performance – all singers
are specialists in their prime. But
it is as a total work, with a radical
understanding of Wagner’s deepest philosophical
ideas, that this production will become
"immortal".

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